Nightmares
by MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth
Summary: “I’m here.” She whispered at intervals, feeling useless and insignificant in the horrors of what Mitchell had to face every day. “I’m here."... Mitchell is confronted with a stark reminder of what he is, and Annie is there to help him. Please R R :


_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Being Human, however much I wish I did.  
__I'm not sure when this is set, something tells me it is post-Lauren, although I have no idea why. Maybe post the whole of series one, what do you think? Also, I think this could be read as Mitchell/Annie, although I didn't write it like that. So, whatever floats your boat really. Anyway, just something I came up with after I saw a man on the street shaking so badly he couldn't light his ciggarette, and that image stuck with me until I wrote it. Don't know how this turned out, but, I really hope I don't waste your time. Enjoy...._

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George and Annie sat in companionable silence reading _The Times _and _Look _magazine respectively. Mitchell had been working a late shift at the hospital, and should have got back about half an hour ago, but they weren't worried. As if on cue, they heard the familiar scrabbling of key in lock, except this time it wasn't followed by the familiar clunk of the bolt opening. The scrabbling continued until Annie got up to let him in, "He's probably stopped off at the pub," she muttered to George, expecting a slightly drunk, very affable Mitchell lounging in the doorway, a careless grin on his face, as had happened many evenings before. Instead, the door swung open on a ghost-faced version of their friend, and there was no grin in sight. She could see that his hands were trembling.

"I had to get the fucking train." Mitchell slammed shut the door, keys jangling angrily against his thigh. He was pale and strained, jaw clenched and eyes darting everywhere. "The inter-city train. On a Friday night. It was so full they could barely shut the doors."

Annie and George exchanged a nervous glance, both wondering how to deal with this. "Are you okay?" Annie asked tentatively, pushing her nails up and down the armchair, was it just her or did his irises seem blacker than usual?

"Imagine a recovering druggie in a crack den." He was still stood over by the door, hadn't taken off his coat yet. His hands were trembling violently. "And then ask me if I'm okay." He stared, hollow-eyed at them for a moment, and strode up the stairs.

Annie gave him an hour, and then made a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and took them upstairs. When she knocked on his door, she got no answer, and so slowly pushed it open. He was fast asleep, flat out on the duvet; he hadn't even taken his boots off. His curtains were wide open, as was his habit, and his mouth was slightly open. In sleep, she pondered, many people looked younger, more innocent, softer. But for Mitchell, sleep stripped him of his carefree charm and humour, leaving him with the marks of his tortured past printed all over his face. She could have watched him sleep forever, she used to love watching Owen sleep, save the fear that he would wake-up and find her. So instead she eased off his shoes and fetched the spare quilt to put over him, placed the tea and sandwich on his bedside table and carefully shut the door behind her, leaving him to his haunted sleep.

He didn't wake up screaming, and he wasn't drenched in sweat, nothing so clichéd as that. It was more the sick, cruel twist of fate that had governed his life so far pulling him from one nightmare into another, both warped versions of what they should have been. He had been stealing breath in his dream and now he was clutching for it, his chest heaving and stomach churning. Once he had gained sufficient amounts of oxygen, his gasping subsided until he was lying still on the bed, the bile rising in his throat. He barely had time to roll off his back before he vomited over the side of the bed.

As Mitchell wretched uncontrollably, not even time to get to the sink or the bathroom, Annie appeared behind him, alerted by the sudden noise. When he had finished, he sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, cold sweat clearly visible on his forehead. Slowly, he turned around, and jumped visibly when he saw Annie.

"Jesus Christ!" He gasped. "Now I know why they call it 'seeing a ghost'!"

"Sorry, I heard the noise and came in to check you were all right. You fell asleep as soon as you came in." She tentatively sat beside him on the bed. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He said tersely, visibly trying to stop himself heaving again.

"No you're not, don't be stupid. Go and get cleaned up, get into your – what do you sleep in, pyjamas? Anyway, get changed. You'll feel better." Annie relished taking control, playing the Mother Hen.

"Yeah, maybe your right. What time is it?" He kneaded his forehead, still blurry from sleep.

"Two, give or take."

"In the morning?"

"Of course. Please, go and wash up, change. You'll feel better." She watched him stumble out the door, rubbing his eyes like a little boy.

By the time Mitchell had returned to his room, Annie had remade the sandwich, thrown away the congealed mug of tea and made a fresh one, changed his sheets, and, with the feeling of a good deed strong in her mind and an even stronger in her stomach, even cleaned up the vomit.

He came back in looking a bit better in a pair of shorts and white T-shirt. Well, maybe not better, but cleaner. He was still pale and drained, and when he sat back on the edge of the bed reaching for a cigarette, his hands were shaking too much to light it. "Shit." He muttered, when he couldn't get it on the 5th go, his still-shallow breathing quickening.

"Here, give it to me." Annie took hold of it instead, managing to light it with clumsy, never-used-a-lighter-before fingers. As she passed it back to him, she flicked the lighter again, looking at it curiously as the little heart of the flame shadowed the room. "Never saw the appeal of cigarettes."

"You would have done if they were all you had to keep warm. Sometimes they made you forget that you hadn't eaten since breakfast – yesterday. It made it feel more normal; cigarettes and card games." He took a deep drag, tasting mud and disease and 1918. "The trenches."

Annie's 'Ohhh' was clearly visible, like a speech bubble over her head. "I forget, sometimes. Then you say things like that and... and you can't help but remember."

"Wish I could forget. I dream about it sometimes, wake up and I think I've got my boots on." Long pause, they both watched ash drop gracefully onto the carpet. "They didn't know it would kill you then, everyone smoked. It was part of being a _man." _To this he gave a deep, growl of a voice, imitating someone who only existed as a name on an obelisk somewhere. "My very human addiction." He gave a slow, ironic laugh, blowing out a cloud of smoke. Then he looked around him, realisation lighting up his face. "You've cleaned up. Annie, you shouldn't have, you didn't have to, I'd have done it."

She shrugged. "It's fine, it's nothing. Don't let your tea get cold, I've already thrown away one tonight."

"Oh, Annie. What would I do without you?" He stubbed out the only half-smoked cigarette and propped up his elbows on his bare knees, resting his head in the heels of his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making the mess and for interrupting your night and – and I'm sorry."

"What's wrong Mitchell? What woke you up, was it the train? 'Cuz there are other ways of getting about if you can't walk or take your car. There are always taxi's, infact, I had a mate whose Dad ran a firm, well, she wasn't really a mate, just someone I worked with. I bet I've still got the number somewhere..." she trailed away, looking at him. His breathing had become slow and rhythmic, as if he was making a conscious effort to control it. Eventually, he looked up, staring out at somewhere Annie couldn't see.

"I remember every single one of them, Annie. Every face, every name, every fucking thing they told me about their families, their lives. They were good people, all of them. And I didn't kill them with a knife, or a gun. I didn't put poison in their drinks or hit them with a car. I drank away their _life_." He was shaking again, and Annie couldn't look away, couldn't interrupt, couldn't do anything except watch, helplessly, as he fell through untold horrors. "I can see the looks on their faces, when they knew what was going to happen. I can see – see them looking at me and seeing their death." He leapt of the bed and went over to the window, gripping onto the flaky sill as if it was the only thing keeping him off the floor. "I walk around all day, disgusted with myself, horrified at what I've done, at whose blood is in my veins. I'm glad I can't look in a mirror, because I'm terrified of what I would see."

"Mitchell..." Annie followed him, scared of the words that were filling the room. Gently, she put her hand on his forearm, not sure what else to do. Carefully, without looking at her, he took it off.

"I'm tainted, and I always will be. I reek of other people's lives. Of other people's deaths. I end up hurting everyone I care about, and it's going to happen to you and George, I just, just know it. I should stay on my own, stop myself doing this. I'm not like George; it's not something I can deal with as a separate person. This _is_ me, the reason I'm not human, the monster, _is_ me. " His voice was harsh and full of pain.

"You're not a monster, Mitchell."

He laughed a horrible, put-on laugh that made Annie want to cry, and strode back to the bed, sitting on the edge as agitatedly as before. "That's exactly what I am. I'm the monster under the bed. I'm the reason children get their parents to check in the wardrobe at night. I'm why the light's left on." He looked at her for the first time since he had finished his cigarette. "Annie..."

It was almost like a baby reaching out its arms for someone, to make sure that someone's still there, that someone can still reach back and touch it, to make sure someone cares. She sat beside him and let him rest his head on her shoulder whilst she held his trembling hands in hers, trying, instinctively, to rub the heat back into them. "I'm here." She whispered at intervals, feeling useless and insignificant in the horrors of what Mitchell had to face every day. "I'm here. I'm not going to leave you. I promise."

It might have been hours, it might've just been minutes, but eventually Mitchell sat up and sighed. "It's just so hard some days. On that train last night, I felt, felt like I used to. I can't stop it, I can pretend all like, I can try and hide it, but I can't stop it."

"I know." Annie said. "Well, I don't _actually_ know, but I know how hard you're trying. I know how much effort it takes, I can see it in you. And, and me and George, we can see how difficult it is. Don't forget we're right beside you. You don't have to do this alone Mitchell."

He swallowed and nodded. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't, but it didn't really need to be said. Annie knew. "You made me tea." He picked up the mug, which was still tolerably hot. "Thankyou. For everything."

"I also made you a bacon sandwich, which may or may not still be edible." She handed him the plate of butties, slathered in Tomato Ketchup, a thing which she had never developed a taste for.

"Every house should come with an Annie." He gave her one of his disarming grins; the ones which she had seen render bar-girls, waitresses, pizza-delivery girls, even the occasional door-to-door Jehovah's Witness girl speechless at twenty paces. He did, however, ruin it by tearing into the sandwich, and saying "this is good!" with his mouth still full.

She watched him eat, feeling gratified at the apparent enjoyment of her cooking. When he had finished she suddenly felt awkward, wondering what to do next. "You should probably, um, try and get some sleep."

A look of terror passed over his face, for just a second, but it was enough for Annie to realise what was wrong.

"You don't have to sleep. Just lie down, just rest. You can't dream if you don't sleep." Annie knew better than most the fear sleep could hold, when you knew what might happen if you closed your eyes.

"You could..., you could stay." Mitchell said in a would-be-casual voice. "If you want?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that." She flopped back down on the bed and curled up, foetal position, just how she used to sleep. When she was alive. Mitchell lay on his back; eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. There was silence, until Annie had a sudden thought. "Did you see The Beatles?"

He laughed, a nice, cheerful chuckle. "Yeah. They were amazing. 1969, the Summer of Love and all that."

"Wow." Annie shuffled closer to him. "Do you mind talking about this?"

"No." He sounded surprised at himself. "No, I don't." When Annie shuffled a bit closer, he lifted up his right arm, freeing up the option for her to use his chest as a pillow. She tentatively rested her head on the place where his heart should beat, and wrapped her arm over his stomach. He hugged her closer, snaking his arm around her waist, lightly, almost unconsciously making little reassuring rubbing motions on her arm.

"This is nice." She murmured sleepily. This human contact, having another person so close, their need for her. To feel the rise and fall of his breathing, his cheek resting against the top of her head. The way he whispered 'thankyou' in her ear, so softly she almost thought she had imagined it.

At some point he fell asleep, she heard his breath even out, so she just lay and listened to him sleep, comforted and wanted and, strangely, happy.

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_So, congrats for making it to the end of this fairly long one-shot. I hope you enjoyed it, whatever your currently feeling towards me and my writing I would be very happy if you reveiwed and told me :) Thankyou if you read it, Thankyouuuuuuu if you reveiw :)_


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